fandomhigh | Home Ec, Tuesday, Period 1

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home ec

Home Ec, Tuesday, Period 1

Someone had decorated the classroom. Possibly several someones.

Who were color blind.

"Yeah, I don't know," Eliot told the students when they arrived. "Just . . . try to make the best of it." He was sort of desperately wishing he had a belt sander handy to strip the orange off things, at least, but they had other things to do right now. And he wasn't teaching Shop this semester.

"Right. So today we're going to touch on the 'economics' side of class. I got the syllabus for this sucker straight from the school board and they, uh. Well. Let's just say I'm pretty sure this thing hasn't been updated since the '80s." He pulled a very distinctively shaped box out of the teacher's desk, popped it open, and started passing around checkbooks. "I'm guessin' most -- if not all -- of you guys have never actually seen one of these before. These are called checks. They were used as sort of formalized financial markers throughout the US and a lot of the rest of the Earth in the 20th century. They've been made almost completely obsolete thanks to smartphones, credit cards, and the internet, but -- sure. Let's all learn how to write checks."

He was rolling his eyes so hard, you guys. This was absurd.

Once everyone had their checkbooks, he went to the whiteboard and drew a rough diagram of the check on the board, numbering each blank and explaining what went in each one. "These suckers are really easy to counterfeit or use in fraud, by the way," he warned them. "If you put 'cash' in the 'who is this for' spot, anyone can use it to get paper money or coins out of your bank account. If you write a check and your account doesn't have enough funds in it to cover the expense, it'll 'bounce', meanin' the person you're payin' doesn't get their money and gets pissed, and the bank gets pissed, and when people get pissed about money it usually means at the very least they're gonna charge you a lot more for it."

At the most? Well. Eliot had maybe been sent out to 'retrieve' in retaliation for a bounced check or two in his time. It wasn't pretty.

"So the basic idea for this class is: You each get the same amount of imaginary money in your imaginary bank account, about 10 thousand -- they ain't dollars, but whatever -- which you'll spend using your super unofficial checks. Then when we're doin' lessons throughout the rest of the semester, you're gonna 'pay' for your supplies using that imaginary money. I dunno, if you want to use, like, organic flour when we're makin' bread, that'll cost more -- whatever the hell you wanna call 'em, points, simoleons, Fandom-bucks, whatever -- than just the regular old all-purpose flour. Maybe you really wanna use the fancy flour, but then next week we're gonna do sewing and you want to get the fancy fabric, too. You're gonna have to keep an eye on your own 'account' and decide what you'd rather spend more money on. Ya follow?"

This was far too complicated for a Fandom class. Seriously.

"If you run out of money b'fore the end of the semester I'm probably supposed to start teachin' you about credit or something and you can learn an important lesson about how to apply for a loan and slowly ruin your life, but -- fuck it. Just -- I ain't gonna track whether or not your checks are bouncin' or not." He was not going to track whether or not they actually used their checks or not, let's be real. "Bullshit a breakdown of what you spent where at the end of the semester and if it even kinda makes sense I'll give you a pass on the economics side of things."

This is what happened when budgeting was being taught by a professional thief.

"For today, practice writin' and endorsin' checks. Go nuts and pay your friends a billion fan-bucks each. Write somethin' dirty on the 'For' line. Practice signing your roommate's name. Y'all're probably either gonna pay for things with PayPal or gold bullion around here, anyway. If your world uses somethin' real interesting for currency, like -- actual shells or something, or -- hey -- if you use an actual barter system, come on over and tell me about it. Money in my world's basically a giant con, so it'll be nice to hear about something that might actually work."

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"Poison?" Hanna couldn't help that reaction. In part because she would use a gun if she had to. And not over buying something.

"The merchants of La Serenissima are known for three things, jolie," he explained. "Their glassware, their ability to haggle, and their virulent poisons. 'Tis a joke that they will always get the best price for the first, if not by the second then by the third."

"I think that sounds like somewhere I should not visit without a great deal of money," Hanna observed, then added, "or weapons. Is that-- legal?" She frowned a little. "No offense intended. But I have not been to many other worlds."

And Pinkie's world was not what you'd call typical.

"Traveling with weapons?" Hyacinthe shook his head, though in confusion, not negation. "This would be the first time I went without a knife since I learned to hold one, were I worried about such things as rules."

He wasn't. He was worried about getting attacked by a completely random creature that hadn't been on the island the day before, however.

"I meant the poisoning. But it is good to know that weapons would not be a problem. I don't know anything about poisons. Except for what to avoid eating in the forest."

And that she was fairly resistant to some, but that wasn't something to be counting on, after all.

She should have taken a class with Karla!

"'Tis a joke," he assured her. "If for no other reason than because a good poison is very expensive and so they would need to be making enough to justify the use. And, believe me, jolie, I know plenty of La Serenissiman merchants who were terrible at haggling and yet I still walk the earth."

"Oh, of course. I apologize. English isn't my first language either," Hanna added. "Neither is French?" She smiled. "//But I know what jolie means,//" she added in that language.

"My milk tongue is Tsingani, the language my mother spoke to me in the cradle," Hyacinthe said, a little excited. No one else seemed to know any of the lannguages he spoke apart from Cruith--English. "What was yours?"

He winked at her. "Good," he added, with a dimple. "I should hate to think you were unaware of how pretty you are."

Hanna turned pink, but managed not to duck her head. "German. Ich bin Deutscher von Geburt," she said explanatorily, then translated. "By birth, that is what I am, but I have only visited Germany. We never lived there." She managed a small cough. "So you speak English, and Cruith, and Tsingani? What does that sound like?" She paused a moment, and then added, "Thank you for saying I am pretty. It is nice to hear."

"Skaldic!" Hyacinthe said, excitedly pointing. "That 'twas Skaldic! I speak only a smattering--" and most of what he did speak was rude or dirty or both "--but I recognize it!"

"How funny!" Hanna laughed, then asked, "Is there a land called Skaldia where you are from? Skald is a word for a storyteller, in an old, old language." Her father had taught her that; her face sobered a moment, then she smiled again. "So maybe there are more languages that are the same, but have different names from your world to mine?"

"Yes, 'tis Terre D'Ange's closest neighbor," Hyacinthe explained, grinning hugely. "'Tis a land of snow and deep forests, blood and iron. There are raids and skirmishes across the border every summer."

Hyacinthe, down in the protected center of the country and no more than a babe when the Battle of Three Princes had been fought, knew the fighting only as exciting tales and the glory of the Heroes of Camlach.

"D'Angeline is the language you called French, and Cruithne is what you know of as English. Alba is the island across the Strait; they sent their prince as an envoy not long ago. He had a club foot and was painted blue, with huge whorls of tattoos, or so I hear."

"That sounds like what Germany was, a hundred or more years ago. Or, perhaps a generation or two ago." Hanna couldn't help smiling back at Hyacinthe's enthusiasm. "They have not been at war for some time, though. They lost the last two wars, badly... Alba?" She bit her lip. "We have an island called that, in the Mediterranean Sea. Terre D'Ange," she repeated. "I only saw a little of our France, two years ago, when I was going from Morocco to Germany. Deustchland," she added.

Hyacinthe pulled out a notebook and started sketching Europa, labeling the provinces of Terre D'Ange and then the rest of the countries. "See, Skaldia," he said, pointing to the country just east of the province of Camlach. "And Alba. And La Serenissima." He pointed to the a small spot on the boot-shaped Caerdicca Unitas.

"Italia. Italy," Hanna said, pointing to the same area. "I think that is near the city of Venice, that tiny spot there." She pointed south of Terre D'Ange, and said, "Aragon is part of Spain, here. Espana. I went dancing there, with a friend. Wonderful music."

Looking at the rest of the map, she said, "Oh, England, Alba! I see." Further south, in what he'd labeled Menekhet, she said, "Morocco. And Egypt. I have been there..." Far, far north of the Flatlands on the map, she put in a hanging peninsula, and labeled it: Norway, Sweden, and across a narrow bay, Finland. "Where I grew up, here." Almost at the top of the world. "Very cold, always."

"Might even be the same city," Hyacinthe said, eyes sparkling. "Depending on how old your Venice is. You've truly traveled to all of these places? That's amazing!" He grinned at her, boyishly handsome. "Until I came here, I'd never left the City of Elua!"

"I'm not certain. Several hundred years, I know that." She beamed at him. "I can look it up to find out, or if it had a name like Serenissima... Elua? Is it a big city?" Hanna asked, biting her lip. "Mostly I saw all those places on one trip." She traced a line from Morocco to Spain, through the southern part of France, up to what would be Germany. "Caravan. Then boat. Then a train. To meet up with my father in Berlin."

It was fun talking about all this with Hyacinthe; Hanna was too shy to properly flirt, most of the time. She rather admired how easy it made it look.

If Hanna did do some research (say, pulling it up on Wikipedia, even), she'd discover that Venice had indeed been known as Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia for centuries.

"The City of Elua," Hyacinthe said, pointing roughly to where Paris would be on a modern map. "'Tis the capitol of Terre D'Ange, where Blessed Elua made his home."

"Paris," Hanna said, echoing his gesture. "I do not know whom or what it was named for. Blessed Elua? A saint?" She tilted her head. "I don't know much about religion. My father had little use for it."

"No one seems to know of Elua or his Companions here," Hyacinthe said, looking very puzzled by this fact. "'Tis odd, as he founded our country and spent decades wandering across Europa. I could...tell you the story? If you're of a mind?"

And Eliot didn't seem to object to them talking, rather than writing more fake checks...

Hanna was doing both at once, really. Shamelessly, mimicking Hyacinthe's handwriting from the map onto her next check, making it out to Gratuity 'Tip' Tucci, for help with Velcro.

"I love stories. So yes, if you wish to?"

"All right," Hyacinthe said, putting on his Prince of Travellers airs. He loved a good story, either hearing one or telling.

"Once, about a thousand years ago, when Tiberium was still a great and mighty empire, Yeshua ben Yosef hung dying on the cross. Blood from a wound inflicted by the cruel spear of a soldier dripped from his side, and there was a great wailing from the women who knelt at the base. The foremost of these, the Magdalene, sobbed bitter salt tears as she tried to clothe him with the ruddy gold of her hair. Her tears fell into the earth made red by the blood of the Messiah, the son of the One God of the Habiru and those who would, in time, become known as the Yeshuites."

Oddly enough, most of the people of the world seemed to know this part of the story, though nothing about Elua. "And from this union of divine blood and terrible grief, a lamenting Mother Earth brought forth the Blessed Elua, her most cherished son and most cherished of the angels. The ground bloomed where he walked and animals neither quarreled nor slew when he spoke. No babe, he sprang forth a man grown, shaped to perfection by the Earth, with a full measure of the Magdalene's beauty, she who was famed for such things."

That all sounded very familiar, yes. Considering that the only books Hanna was raised on were an old encyclopedia and a book of older German fairy tales, it was kind of amazing that she did know that one, but two years of Fandom had made her relatively familiar with the Big Stories of this part of the world.

"A magic story," Hanna mused, not quite sure what to make of this. "So he was an angel. Or a man whom everyone called an angel."

"Something between," Hyacinthe said. "Divinely-blooded, yet not heavenly. In fact..." He gave Hanna another wink. "He was quite earthy indeed, enjoying in the delights of the flesh, be they food or wine or song. He took joy in the company of men and women, in the giving and receiving of pleasure, and tasting of all the experiences he could."

"Now," he chided, wagging a finger, "I'll not have you believing that Elua's life was easy. He was despised by Tiberium as the scion of their sworn enemy, yet the Yeshuites also turned their faces from him, calling him an abomination. He traveled Europa and beyond, crossing hot deserts and frigid wastes, and yet still he sang as he traveled, as there was joy in his heart. One day, however, he came upon the land of Persis and did dwell there awhile. And the King of Persis, hearing about this man whose beauty rivaled the stars and whom the people were coming to love, grew afraid and sent his soldiers to have him clapped in irons and tossed into prison to rot."

Hanna snickered, but gestured at Hyacinthe to go on. Then frowned. "I would have thought he would want hi on his side. And was your Elua not strong enough to break free, if he was not strictly mortal? Or turn them into donkeys, or similar?"

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